L—
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Jennie left.
I didn't chase her.
If we can't be ninety-nine percent amazing together and let that other one percent (the book) fade into the background, I'm fighting a losing battle. After all, I can't turn back time and pretend I love something I don't. When I asked her never to surrender, I didn't anticipate her taking it so literally.
"Hey! What's up?" I answer my phone, seeing my dad's picture pop up onto the screen.
"Can you thin my slush pile?"
I laugh. "Do I have to?"
"Yes. I already sent five. They'll arrive later today, and I sent them to your store so you can sign for them."
"And how long do I have?"
"A week."
I shake my head, standing from my desk as the front door to the store rings from someone opening it. "Just fantastic. About a book a day."
"You didn't have other plans anyway. Right?"
"No, Dad. No plans. Gotta go."
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Two hours later, the package arrives, and I grab dinner on the way home.
As soon as I open the apartment building's door, Jennie glances up from the bike rack. Two other residents are in the entry, so I don't feel obligated to acknowledge her. She didn't want to sleep with anyone in the building because things could be awkward.
Well, here I am ... smiling at everyone, including her. Same smile. Nothing special. I'm not making anything awkward as I carry my package and dinner past her. She tips her chin down and slips off her helmet.
That's right ... you should hide your face in shame. You crazy book lady.
She kicked and shoved me like a toddler having a tantrum. I didn't appreciate her making me feel like I was forcing myself on her. I wasn't.
After I get my dinner set out on my table, I open the package of manuscripts. The slush pile of unsolicited crap-at least ninety-nine out of a hundred is complete garbage. Occasionally, there's a hidden gem. Dad's looking for that one and must feel indifferent about other clients' work. My parents have owned a publishing company for twenty years, and I'm expected to take over when they retire. In the meantime, they use me for fun stuff like the slush pile. My head already aches, and I haven't even started.
All five manuscripts have tags on them. They're the ones my mom peeked at and didn't hate the first three chapters.
I thumb through them, deciding which will ruin my night the least.
Elenor's Boyfriend
Hard pass.
Waking Up In His Arms
Hell no.
Journey to The Missing Planet
It's a possibility. I'd rather go to the missing planet than meet Elenor's boyfriend or wake up in some guy's arms.
Sex on Medicare
What the fuck? I remind myself that my mom read at least a few chapters and saw something. She might need to get new glasses.
The Last Person
I chuckle. Great. Another book with that title, and sadly, it's probably better than Jennie's obsession. My gaze slides an inch lower to the author-B. Ashton.
Fuck. My. Life.
Really? How did Jennie pick an indie book submitted to my parents' publishing house? I envision myself recommending this be the one they publish. B. Ashton gets her book in bookstores and airport gift shops. I take Jennie to the locally owned bookstore on the corner and show her the colossal display of The Last Person in the window. Then I tell her it was because of me. I made it happen. She takes me back to her place. We fuck like rabbits. The End.
I laugh out loud. Yeah ... that's not happening. If I run out of toilet paper, I might use pages of the manuscript to wipe my ass, but that's the most appreciation this book will get from me.
Truth? I didn't initially hate it. I just didn't see a wow factor. The writing is good, and there's potential. But after weeks and weeks of it cockblocking me, I detest it.
"Looks like I'm taking a journey to the missing planet." I push the manuscripts aside and slide my plate in front of me. As I try to enjoy my dinner, the stupid manuscript haunts me.
How does this happen? Millions of books. Millions of manuscripts. And this one lands in my lap.
I grab a red pen and start marking up The Last Person. My dad only wants my opinion. He's not expecting me to return an edited manuscript, but I must do this. I need to get it out of my system ... the book out of my system ... her out of my system.
By five the following morning, with no sleep for my wary body, and pages of red marks and long notes, I turn to the last page. The words wait for me to swallow them, to make sense of them as I read a copy of the query letter.
I can't. They lodge into my chest, making it hard to breathe. I feel ... No. There are no words to describe how I feel.
Anger.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
Resentment.
All good words, but not the right ones.
Dragging my exhausted ass into the bathroom, I shower and go to work. It takes four espressos to get through the day. By the time I get home, I'm ready to collapse.
"Going to the next book club?" Piper asks when she starts up the stairs behind me.
I stop midway to the second floor and glance over my shoulder. "That's tonight?"
She nods and smiles. "Yes. We're finishing the discussion tonight. That ending! Did you finish it?"
Even the muscles in my face are too exhausted to pull into a readable expression. I nod. "Did you like the story?"
"Loved it!" She passes me, clicking her heels on the stairs to the third floor.
"Can I ask how many books you read in a year?" I yell up to her.
"Twenty to thirty." She stops and peeks her head over the railing. "Why?"
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I shake my head. "No reason."
"Did you not like it?"
I continue shaking my head while my feet drag my ass the rest of the way to the second floor. "Doesn't matter," I mumble.
Setting the alarm on my phone, I give myself an hour of sleep to take the edge off so I can start another manuscript before bedtime. When I wake up, I stare at the time. It's thirty minutes until book club ... until Jennie's friends praise her for her excellent book pick. There's a one hundred percent chance she doesn't want me there.
If my brain was working correctly, with more than an hour's sleep in the past day, I'd eat, read, and go to sleep without giving that woman or her favorite book a second thought. Sadly, it's not working right. So I change my clothes, grab my paperback copy of the book, and head to the rooftop.
When I push through the heavy door, Jennie's gaze finds me in less than two seconds, her sad eyes narrowing a fraction. I give her nothing because I don't know exactly how I feel. The right words still don't exist.
"Oh, hey, Lisa." Rosé offers me a stiff smile.
"Hi." I nod.
"This is my fiancé, Adrian." She tugs on the short, dark-haired kid's arm. Yes ... he looks maybe sixteen, but I'm sure he's of legal age.
"Hi." It's my best, non-confrontational greeting. I'm not here to bring trouble. Not yet, anyway.
He returns a similar nod of acknowledgment.
"Everyone take a seat," Jennie beckons the chattering members to the sofas.
My ass plants itself at the far end.
"Okay. Let's go around and give our one-word impression of the ending." Jennie's eyes lift from her book, her gaze sweeping to everyone but me.
"Unexpected."
"Shocking."
"Perfection."
"Satisfying."
Everyone shares their words. Jennie's posture builds into a statue of pride with each passing second.
"Lisa, your turn." Ashlee nudges my arm.
I stare at the book on my lap. "Ambiguous."
"Huh ... so you felt the ending was open to interpretation?" Rosé asks.
I shrug, keeping my head down. "Something like that," I murmur.
"Well, anyway ..." Jennie jumps in and starts a specific topic of conversation.
I let my gaze find her, and I don't look away-not when she risks a glance at me, laughs, or sips her wine and nods in agreement with the discussion. I watch her and wonder why.
After it's over and everyone starts to make their way toward the exit, I don't move.
"We'll give you a few minutes," Rosé says to Jennie before she and her fiancé exit the rooftop leaving just the two of us.
Jennie tries to ignore me, picking up trash and gathering the wine bottles.
I watch her.
She lowers the umbrellas and sets the trash bag by the door.
I watch her.
"Why are you here?" She parks in front of me, arms crossed. I don't get an angry vibe from her. It's a sad one.
I toss my book, along with a Sharpie, onto the table beside me. "Thought I'd ask B. Ashton to sign my book."
"W-what are you talking about?"
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," I grunt, resting my elbows on my knees and running my hands through my hair.
"How?" she whispers.
"Roseland Publishing. Roseland was my grandmother-a poet. My parents named their publishing company after her. My dad sent me some manuscripts from his slush pile to read through. Can you guess whose manuscript was in that pile?" I lift my gaze. "With a copy of the query letter and the author's real name?"
Her eyes turn red with unharnessed emotion.
"Why?"
She slowly shakes her head. "I was afraid."
"If you're afraid, you don't pick your own damn book for the book club. You had to have a certain level of confidence to do that."
She continues to shake her head. "I wanted honest feedback, more than just a review online. But I didn't want anyone to feel obligated to say nice things because they knew it was my book."
"Bullshit!" I stand, forcing her to take a few steps backward.
She flinches.
"If you wanted honest feedback, you would have asked me for more of my thoughts on the book. You wanted your ego stroked, and when I refused to comply, you acted like a fucking child."
"Screw you."
"You did. You screwed me. Only I didn't realize we were a threesome. Had I known beforehand, I might have slipped on my kid gloves and been slightly less honest. That's what you wanted. Right? Sugar-coated honesty? Did you want to know about the two hundred and thirty-seven typos that your editor missed before you self-published? Did you want to know that your timeline is off? Or is that too much too? Because I can guarantee you that a publisher will not hold back. They will tell you exactly what needs to be changed to improve your story. They'll probably take out all the parts that you love the most. They'll ask you to rewrite entire chapters and frown upon your excessive use of passive tense. They'll make judgments on your characters and suggest you do something to lessen the extreme bitchiness of your heroine. And you'll get your back up because you know that deep down, that heroine is you."
She tips her chin up. "The reviews online are excellent."
I shake my head. "I looked-two-hundred reviews. Let's talk about reviews when you have two thousand. Or more like twenty thousand, which will give us a better idea of what a hundred thousand might look like if you get published. For all we know, you have two hundred loyal friends right now."
"None of my friends know it's my book!"
"It doesn't matter."
"You hate it, so you assume everyone else will hate it. Well, you're wrong."
"I never said I hated it."
She flips her hip out and crosses her arms. "So you're going to publish it?"
"No." I chuckle. "You self-published, and you tested a small market. Good for you. The fact that you self-published at all makes you a little less appealing to publishers. Write another book and keep building your audience. Or write another book and submit it before you publish it."
"But I already wrote a book. And I don't care what you think ... I left my soul in that book. I worked my ass off to write that book, and that could be my best work."
"Well," I shrug, "then I suggest you keep your day job. Good luck." I brush past her toward the door.
"You're an asshole."
"Okay." I don't glance back at her.
"I'll just send it to more publishers and agents. I'm not giving up."
"Okay." I keep walking.
"And you're going to feel like such a fool when this is a bestseller, and you passed it up."
"We'll see about that." I open the door and leave her behind with her gigantic ego.
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